


A Blessing Counted

by myownspecialself



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Futurefic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-29
Updated: 2003-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 07:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspecialself/pseuds/myownspecialself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Thanksgiving Day and there is no rift. Just relentelessly schmoopy, domestic bliss featuring the Clex, their 6-year-old girl. Co-starring Jonathan and Martha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blessing Counted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Rift? What Rift?" challenge 

## A Blessing Counted

by myownspecialself

<http://www.boomspeed.com/mosself/>

* * *

Date: November 2003 

Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment only. It is not for profit. Smallville is the property of Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, Tollin-Robbins Productions, and Warner Bros. Television, and based upon characters originally created by Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster. 

Archive: Please ask first (I've never said no). 

Feedback: Oh yes! Send to myownspecialself-at-yahoo-dot-com 

[http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=denialcorp&itemid=19281](http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=denialcorp&itemid=19281)

Acknowledgments: Many thanks to Philtre, Reetchick, GothPhyle, and Autumnyte for the audiencing and preliminary beta. 

Heartfelt thanks also to Teaphile and Ruedifference for the final beta. 

* * *

I don't recall ever having heard that the world would end on a Thanksgiving Day, and yet that thought flashes through my mind the moment Jonathan appears on the front porch. He is holding something in one hand; it gleams in the late-morning light when he brandishes it. 

"I've been waiting for you!" he bellows. There's a glint in his eyes and I stop in my tracks. 

My mind speeds back to that scene years ago and suddenly I see it all once again: Desiree as she stood next to Jonathan while he aimed a shotgun at me, a strange look in his eyes. My throat goes dry and my heart pounds. In an instant, I reach behind me to make sure, and I feel some relief when a little hand grasps mine. Hoping my voice doesn't crack, I open my mouth to force out a greeting. 

"Come here, princess," Jonathan bellows again, and the nightmare vanishes as Maggie lets go of my hand and bounds up the steps and into Jonathan's arms with a great cry of "Grandpa." 

Jonathan places a noisy kiss on his granddaughter's cheek as he sweeps her up against his chest, and then he looks over and grins at me. He brandishes again what he holds in the other hand and I realize it's a bottle of wine. "Don't just stand there, Lex, come on in so I can show you the great Merlot I picked up yesterday while I was shopping downtown." 

I follow them obediently into the house and just as soon as I pass through the front door, the roasting and baking smells surround me. As Jonathan brays to Martha and Clark the announcement of Maggie's and my arrival, he pounds me a couple of times on the back with a huge-palmed hand and I realize that nowadays I have nothing to fear from Clark's father. From my own father? That's a different story, of course. But today is Thanksgiving, so I quickly shove the thought to the back of my mind. 

* * *

"Grandma! Molly just threw up all over the porch." Maggie comes barreling in to the kitchen. She turns to me. "Papa, you should see the hairball. It's really big." She flings her arms wide open to convey the scope of the drama; her face shines with a mixture of awe and delight. 

"Oh my," Martha says as she looks up from the stove. 

"Grandpa says for me to ask you for Molly's hairball medicine." She watches eagerly for a few seconds as Martha searches through the cupboard. 

She turns back to look at Clark and then at me. "Papa, do people get hairballs like cats do?" She sounds so hopeful. 

I sneak a glance across the table at Clark, who is setting his glass of milk down very carefully. His expression shifts in a funny way as he presses his lips together. He avoids looking at me, and I can tell he's trying not to laugh. 

"No, sweetie," I say as evenly as I can, "people don't get hairballs. They don't have nearly as much fur." 

"Here, Maggie." Martha hands Maggie a small metal tube that is crimped at one end. She whirls around and runs out of the kitchen with a hurried "Thanks." 

"Be sure to bring it back as soon as you're done, honey," Martha calls after her. 

"Here's the medicine, Grandpa," Maggie crows to Jonathan before she even reaches the porch. "Can _I_ give it to Molly? Hey, Grandpa, what did you do with the hairball?" 

"So," Martha says as she carefully maneuvers a turkey out of the oven, "she turns seven next month." She puts the turkey on the counter and squints inside it. "What kind of a birthday party are you going to have for her?" 

"We were thinking that this year maybe we should try Chuck E. Cheese again." Clark looks at me for confirmation and I nod. "Last year we had it at our place, and it was a bit much." 

"You were there, Martha," I say. "Remember? It was raining. All those people crowded into the penthouse." 

"Yes." She pulls a casserole dish out of another oven. " It seemed like there were almost a hundred people, if I remember correctly, plus that bouncy castle thing..." She sets the casserole dish on the counter. "Didn't you swear you weren't ever going to do Chuck E. Cheese again?" She looks at Clark and smiles. "You said that the combination of little kids, pepperoni, and sugary soft drinks is basically kryptonite with legs." 

"Well, Lois and Bruce have already agreed to help supervise the party this year," Clark says quickly, "and some of the parents will volunteer." 

"Having the party at home is a real imposition on the staff," I say, "and our housekeeper is particularly fussy. We need to keep her happy. It's very hard to find good help in Metropolis these days." 

"Her birthday is on a Sunday this year." Martha is looking at a calendar on the wall. "I wonder if I could get away to Metropolis that weekend." 

I know it's her way of offering to help. I'm tempted to let her off the hook, but when she turns toward me, I see that she has already decided. 

"Only if you really want to, Mom," Clark says. He stands up and yawns. "Huh. Excuse me." He looks at us both. "I think I'm going to take a quick nap. We're not going to eat for another hour, right?" He shakes his head. "Guess I'm not used to getting up so early." 

It's barely noon. This morning poor Clark got up around five o'clock in Metropolis and flew-- literally-- here to Smallville, when the sun still had not yet risen. He helped Jonathan with the farm chores. There are more of them now than when Clark was a boy, because the Kent farm has expanded in the last few years and is now doing well enough that Jonathan has two full-time hired hands. He insisted both fellows have the day off to spend Thanksgiving with their families. He even gave them each a turkey. 

Maggie and I arrived from Metropolis by car at a much more civilized hour, allowing Clark to have an early breakfast with his parents. Just as if he were once again seventeen. 

Helping Jonathan with the early-morning chores on a holiday like today is the only way Clark can spend time alone with his father and just talk. I know that he sometimes misses the rituals of farm chores. I think he even misses the homespun philosophy that often accompanies them. I myself have found that as I get older, the platitudes no longer seem like such; at least, I find myself rolling my eyes less frequently than I used to at Jonathan's pronouncements, and not just for Clark's sake. Not just because I love Jonathan's son. 

I love Clark, but I don't really analyze how or why. It's been fifteen years since we first met, and we've been married for almost eleven years. That's a lot of years of sleeping next to him, snoring next to him, and-- barring any emergencies that require his pre-dawn attention-- waking up next to him. I can't conceive of anything else. 

A discussion of physical attraction-- of love at first sight-- seems almost pointless now. Yes, we still call each other 'sexy' and 'handsome,' and we mean it. At least I do. 

I remember how just catching sight of him used to leave me stunned. Breathless. Now I feel whole and complete when I see him walk in the door at the end of the day. 

"It was just meant to be," Pete once told me last year, after a fundraising dinner for his campaign. He shrugged his broad shoulders and sipped his beer. "And I've never thought otherwise. I knew you and Clark were destined to be together, even before he told me he was in love with you." A swig of beer. "It just _is_. Like Lana and me. After you've been together for a while, you can't imagine anything else. Anyone else." Another swig. "Now if we can just convince voters that they can't imagine anyone else but me for senator." 

* * *

"Yes, get some rest, Clark," Martha says, barely looking up from the pan of gravy she's working on. 

Clark turns toward the door and then looks at me and I know he's thinking that one of us should go outside and check with Jonathan just in case Maggie has become a nuisance. I start to rise from my chair. 

"Here's the cat's medicine, Grandma!" Maggie bounces into the kitchen, almost bumping into Clark. "Grandpa told me to put it on my finger and I did and then I gave it to Molly and she licked it all off. Her tongue tickles." 

She places the tube on the counter. She comes up to me and shakes my knee. "Guess what, Papa-- Daddy--" She looks at Clark and then back at me, "Grandpa says I'm real good with animals and that I should become a vetchin... a vetcheran... an animal doctor." 

"A veterinarian, honey," Martha says to Maggie. I snicker and poke Maggie gently in the side, and this makes her giggle. 

Clark leans down and nudges Maggie's shoulder with his own. "C'mon. Let's go watch the Macy's parade on TV." He looks at the clock on the wall. "I think it just started." 

"Oh. The balloons! Are they going to have a Superman balloon this year? Daddy, we have to watch and see if you're going to be a balloon!" 

As they go into the living room, I hear Clark say, "You know what? Daddy's going to stretch out on the couch, but you can watch the parade and see what kind of balloons they have." 

* * *

A half-hour later, Jonathan and Martha are trying to hide their concern when I tell them that following my annual check-up, my white blood cell count is slightly higher than normal. "But they can find no reason to think it's leukemia," I quickly add. "I don't have any of the symptoms." 

I sample the Merlot, which Jonathan found at Budget Gourmet, one of the new stores in Smallville. Over the years, he's developed an interest in wines. Every time Clark and I come for a visit, he has a new find for us to try out. 

Well, for _me_ to try out. Clark doesn't generally like wines. There's something in them that overpowers everything else for him, and he can't sense the flavors. Usually he joins us only if there's a plate of cheese to nibble on. 

"It's almost fruity. Interesting," I say as I look into my glass, hoping to distract them from worrying, "But not sweet." And indeed, Jonathan has picked a good one, or so it seems to me. I've tasted a lot of wine, but I don't think of myself as a connoisseur. Certainly not like Dad, and besides, with a busy home life, I don't have much time for hobbies. 

As it is, I won't even have time for a busy home life during the next few weeks: once again, Dad is hell-bent on buying out Bill Gates. _If LuthorCorp is to diversify and grow to stay truly competitive, then we really need this strategic acquisition, Lex_ , and so on and so forth. And this quarter, against all odds, it seems that the deal may actually go through. 

The other night, back in Metropolis, I warned Clark that he and Maggie won't see much of me in the several weeks to follow. Part of the ritual of mergers and acquisitions is to fly to different parts of the country-- sometimes the world-- to attend meetings, more meetings, and then more meetings after that. When you're through with a meeting, you go immediately to the next one. And somehow in all of these meetings, a company is sold and then bought-- which means more meetings. 

"What will he call the company after he buys it?" Clark asked as we slipped into bed that night. "Not 'Luthorsoft,' I hope." He snickered. "Sounds like some sort of familial impotence or something." 

"Very funny," I replied dryly, withdrawing the hand that had been making its way down past his still-flat stomach. "If that's your assessment of the Luthor males' sexual prowess in general-- or at least mine and Lucas' -- " I shot him a pointed look, "-- perhaps we should forget about what my hand and I, along with other parts, were planning to do to you. We should just go to sleep." 

I wasn't really serious. Even so, he had the decency to look almost guilty. His transgression with Lucas happened a long time ago, when he was under the influence of that red-kryptonite ring. 

Besides, Lucas has never been a real threat to our relationship. Even less so, now that he's Whitney's problem. Lucas himself likes to say, "I'm Whitney's ball and chain; he's mine-- and it's a life sentence." Whitney is indeed fortunate to have found a life partner who is both a romantic _and_ a poet. And who is willing to go into rehab-- even if it's not the Betty Ford Clinic-- when things get out of control. 

Anyway, I rapidly lost interest in making Clark feel guilty, and very soon I found myself murmuring in Clark's ear, "You know, I forgave you long ago. If I were still mad at you, I wouldn't be doing to you what I'm about to do." One thing led to another, and we became so distracted in re-enacting my forgiveness that we didn't think about corporate life or past grievances for the rest of the night. 

* * *

Jonathan holds out the bottle and starts to fill my almost-empty glass. "How about some more of this Merlot, Lex?" The hearty tone is not an affectation; it's the result of the wine and cheese. "Or should we move on to the Riesling now?" He ignores the look of disapproval that Martha shoots in his direction. 

"Grandpa!" Maggie makes her usual turbulent entrance. "Can I have some string?" 

"Of course! Let's see what we have." Jonathan beams, and he and Maggie go to a drawer of the kitchen counter. They haggle over the length of the string, and then Jonathan cuts a very long piece. Martha and I exchange glances as we silently speculate on what Maggie must be plotting. 

"Thank you, Grandpa." Maggie turns to me and says in a confidential tone, "Daddy fell asleep. He snores." I widen my eyes and raise my eyebrows as if this were news to me. 

Then to the three of us she announces, "I'm making you a Thanksgiving surprise, so you can't come into the living room until I tell you, okay?" 

We nod to show we understand. "I mean it," she adds, and then runs out of the kitchen. 

Martha is telling me what's new with Nell Potter and her third husband when Maggie yet again barrels in. At home, Clark and I call Maggie "Cannonball" because of way she takes a running leap onto our often-still-occupied bed (hence what I swear is a permanent knee-print on my left kidney). Jonathan sometimes calls Maggie "Twister," and at moments like this, the reason for the tornado metaphor is obvious. 

The three of us look expectantly at Maggie, who is breathing heavily. Her shoulders rise and fall comically. 

"Okay." She exhales a long, dramatic sigh. "You can come out to the living room now." 

We follow obediently: first Jonathan, then Martha; I bring up the rear. On the verge of entering the living room, we stop in our tracks and gape. 

Clark is still asleep-- but not on the couch. That is, he would be on the couch if he weren't completely exhausted, which is normally the reason why he floats like that. Right now he's maybe almost five feet off the floor, hovering horizontally. Face down. 

One end of the string that Maggie recently got from her grandfather is tied around Clark's wrist. Speechless, we watch as Maggie gently pulls the string. Clark, snoring softly, drifts until he's almost directly above Maggie's head. 

"It's the Macy's balloon parade," Maggie whispers theatrically. She points to the television set, where the actual event is still happening on-screen; she wants to make sure we get it. "They said there isn't a Superman balloon this year because the cape was torn. So I made my own Superman balloon," she points up, at Clark's flannel-and-denim ensemble, "and, see? Mine doesn't have a cape, either." 

Martha's shoulders are shaking, and I know she's trying not to laugh out loud. I look over at Jonathan, and he, too, is trying not to make any noise. Like me, he's biting the inside of his cheek. 

Guiding her floating Daddy with gentle tugs on the string, Maggie walks around the living room to the beat of the marching music that comes from the television set. As she leads Clark through the air, she turns every so often to see what's happening on the TV screen, and then she looks at Jonathan and Martha and waves to them as if they were on the sideline of a real parade. 

As I choke back my laughter, I notice Clark is at a height that puts him on a direct course for some of the taller floor lamps. Even so, Maggie is somehow able to avoid running her Daddy into those lamps or any of the furnishings. 

It's only after the second lap around the living room, while Jonathan and Martha continue to muffle their snickers, that Clark floats right by. Close enough that I notice he's stopped snoring. His head is tilted ever so slightly toward us. Then I see an eye open half-way. I look over at Jonathan and Martha; they see Clark's face also. 

Clark wiggles an eyebrow and winks the half-open eye: we are not to let on. I notice he's biting his lip. He, too, is trying not to laugh. 

Maggie is oblivious to Clark's subterfuge, and she hums softly and tunelessly along with the marching band that is playing on TV. For another minute she leads Clark around the room. Then Martha says, "Maggie, it's time to wake up your Daddy. We're going to eat very soon." 

Maggie nods and guides the Daddy-balloon back so that he is parallel to the couch. She reels in the string while approaching the couch. This lowers Clark so that Maggie can gently push him down toward the cushions. Clark is now a few inches above the couch. Interestingly enough, he has resumed his soft snoring. 

"Daddy," Maggie whispers loudly. Clark's eyes remain shut. "Daddy." Louder, but still no response. Maggie giggles and jams a finger in Clark's ear. 

It works every time. 

"Aaagh!" Clark's eyes fly open and he falls the last few inches onto the couch. 

"Daddy," Maggie giggles again, "you were a balloon." 

"What?" Clark sits up. He looks around, blinking rapidly as if slightly dazed. "Time to eat?" He scratches his head and looks at us with an almost cross-eyed expression of innocence. It's the same expression he used to put on when he would avoid answering my questions-- those questions I used to have, way back when it was still silly for me to believe in aliens and spaceships. 

I let loose a snort of laughter. Clark shoots me a warning look. 

Jonathan and Martha are wiping tears off their cheeks and gasping with laughter. 

"...You should've seen yourself, Daddy. I made you into a balloon," Maggie is saying, "because the parade didn't have a Superman balloon and there should've been one and Grandpa gave me some string so I could do it and," Maggie takes a quick breath, "I tied it on. See?" She points to the string trailing from Clark's wrist. 

"I think I almost wet my pants," Jonathan coughs. 

"I should have taken a picture," Martha says, shaking her head, "to send to Lionel." 

"...And after I tied the string on, you started to float higher. And I held on to the string so you wouldn't float away." 

"You silly-willy," Clark says, grinning at Maggie. He lunges, and Maggie shrieks with laughter as her Daddy picks him up. "You mean I was floating? And you made me into a balloon? Like this?" He holds Maggie out and parallel to the floor. 

"But with a string," Maggie laughs, flailing as she moves through the air. 

"Jon, help me set the table and bring out the turkey." Martha moves toward the kitchen, and Jonathan follows her. "We're going to eat in about five minutes," she says to us over her shoulder. I think I hear her let loose a high-pitched giggle and then, when I realize it's actually Jonathan, I almost fall apart myself. 

Clark is now walking around the living room with arms extended, his large hands holding Maggie aloft. 

"Look Papa, I'm a balloon!" Maggie chortles to me. 

Clark switches to dangling our bundle of hyper-stimulated six-year-old by one ankle and he starts to walk past me. "I'm upside-down," Maggie hollers joyfully. 

The string still trails from Clark's wrist and he playfully flicks it at me. Then he leans forward and pecks me quickly on the lips. "You sure have a goofy grin on your face, you doofus," he murmurs. 

And indeed I do. 

Then it dawns on me. 

I love Clark because of this. 

Because of what we have: Moments like these in a small town that long ago was intended to be my exile, but became, instead, the place where I was re-born when an extraordinary young man pressed his mouth to mine and brought me back to life. Times like this, in a big, comfortable farmhouse with a redheaded woman who is more a mother than a mother-in-law, and a father-in-law who has come to accept me and even looks forward to my next visit. And best of all, we have a little girl who is the center of her Daddy's and Papa's universe. 

"Guys, let's eat," I say, catching the impatient look that Martha throws us from the kitchen. 

As we settle in our chairs around the table, Maggie asks Martha if she can have the wishbone after the turkey meat is all gone. Before Martha can answer, Maggie informs her grandfather she wants a drumstick. 

"Sure, princess." Jonathan tousles Maggie's hair. "But first, let's have the Thanksgiving speech." 

Something clicks in my mind, and I ask Jonathan, "Why don't I give the Thanksgiving speech this year? Not that I mind when you give it." It's really not so much a speech as a simple recitation-- a few things that have occurred during the year; things for which we are thankful. 

"I don't see why you shouldn't, Lex. Go ahead." Jonathan nods. 

I clear my throat. I look quickly at Jonathan, Martha, and Maggie; they are waiting patiently. I try to organize a few stray thoughts. 

Then my gaze lands on Clark. As I open my mouth to speak, he suddenly smiles at me in a way that, as always, makes my heart swell. 

And I know exactly what I will say. 

~End 


End file.
